


jewels in joy designed

by sabrina_il (marina)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Canon Bisexual Character, Cock & Ball Torture, Cunnilingus, F/F, F/M, Future Fic, Immobility, Mild S&M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Podfic Available, Post Apocalyptic Sex Toys, Post-Season/Series 02 Finale, Sex Toys, Strap-Ons, Threesome, Threesome - F/F/M, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 13:40:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3812596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marina/pseuds/sabrina_il
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post S2 finale: Clarke eventually returns to Camp Jaha while also helping Lexa keep her people together. </p><p>Alternatively: porn. Porn porn porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	jewels in joy designed

**Author's Note:**

> So I recently fell into this fandom HARD.
> 
> After the S2 finale I was like WHAT IF: Clarke lives in the forest where she stumbles into Lexa's territory, and she and Lexa have an epic blowout that lets them sort out their relationship, and Lexa actually kind of needs Clarke because Lexa's reputation took a major hit after Mount Weather, but then once Clarke is OK enough to be of any help to Lexa she has to go back to Camp Jaha because she can't just leave her people. She's still their leader and always will be, so she's gonna make sure they're alright. Also: Bellamy. 
> 
> And then I was like "oh hey you know what? What if I write only the porn bits of that story? Yeah let's do that." Et voila. 
> 
> Thank you to tassoss for feeding me ideas for this fic, and to darthjamtart for looking it over. 
> 
> Title from Thomas Hardy's poem "The Convergence of the Twain".

1.

Bellamy kisses her collarbone, her neck, behind her ear. “Don’t go,” he whispers. 

They used to have this only in dark, empty forests and secret bunkers and secluded spots in the woods. It used to take bloodshed and weeks of separation to make Bellamy this open, this raw. Now they have Bellamy’s room — though he still technically shares with Octavia — and this lumpy bed, and the weak, early dawn sunlight shining through the fabric. 

“I have to,” Clarke says. “The alliance of the twelve clans is disintegrating. They need me.” She buries her hands in Bellamy’s hair, coarse and thick, longer than it’s been in a while. 

“You mean _she_ needs you,” he says, in between kisses. 

They’ve been over this. Bellamy knows they need the Grounders to stay united, otherwise clan warfare will engulf the region and no one at Camp Jaha will be safe from violence.

“Are you jealous?” Clarke says, pulling Bellamy’s face away from hers so she can meet his eyes. It’s not the first time they’ve talked about this. She’s learned how easy it is to hurt Bellamy, once he lets you in. She wants to avoid doing it unknowingly. 

“No,” he says, long eyelashes sweeping across his cheek. “But I want you here.”

 

2\. 

“Is this what it’s like, with him?” Lexa says, her hands between Clarke’s legs, three of her fingers in Clarke’s cunt. Clarke cries out when Lexa’s fingers thrust harder, grabbing the furs lining the large, soft, luxurious bed that comes with Lexa’s job.

Lexa’s tone would sound calm to most people, probably, but Clarke knows her too well. She’s seen Lexa give up people she loved for justice, for order, for the best available compromise. A lot’s happened since the days when Lexa tried to teach Clarke emotional control. 

Lexa’s fingers thrust in and out, her thumb rubbing ruthlessly against Clarke’s clit. Clarke moans and writhes and Lexa dips her other hand into the horn of oil hanging by the bed and pushes a slick finger against Clarke’s ass. Clarke bites her lip against the flood of sensation, the pulsing heat that starts at her cunt and travels everywhere, making Clarke’s fingers tremble, her face sweat. Lexa kisses her and then moves down to bite at Clarke’s nipple, her eyes never leaving Clarke’s, and Clarke nods. 

She comes, for the second time that night, with three of Lexa’s fingers in her cunt and two in her ass, Lexa’s weight holding her down, mouth wet on Clarke’s heaving chest. 

It takes her a few minutes to gather herself. 

Lexa climbs up the bed, lies on her side, stroking Clarke’s hair with something between smugness and fondness. “Great Clarke of the Sky People,” she says, a crooked smile on her lips. There’s a new bitterness to Lexa, new frown lines for war paint to conceal. But Clarke knows none of that’s about her. Lexa sacrificed Clarke once, to spare her own people bloodshed, and she’s paid for that decision by looking like a fool. If Clarke had been killed, if Mount Weather had won, Lexa’s status would have benefitted. Instead she’s now the Commander who broke an alliance dishonorably and ran away from an enemy her betrayed allies quickly annihilated. 

Clarke grabs Lexa’s hand, brings the fingers Lexa had in her cunt up to her lips, sucks her own taste from Lexa’s skin. “It’s good, with him,” Clarke says, moving to slide down Lexa’s body, pinning Lexa’s hips with her arms, pushing apart Lexa’s thighs and settling between them. “But it’s not a competition.”

 

3\. 

Bellamy’s arms are tied with rope above his head, his body stretched out taut on the bed. Clarke runs her hands along his arms, his chest, his stomach — every solid, muscled part of him. Bellamy takes deep breaths and closes his eyes, letting his body relax by increments. A bomb exploded just outside the gate three days ago, while Clarke was away, injuring two guards. A new phenomenon — a radical Grounder faction embracing explosives scavenged from the remains of Mount Weather. Bellamy’s been in charge of patrol and sentry schedules at camp since last week. 

Clarke leans down for a kiss and Bellamy opens, his mouth soft and sweet, his eyelids fluttering but his eyes remaining closed. He doesn’t open them until Clarke has her hand wrapped around his balls, squeezing gently. 

He gasps, lips parting, and his eyes focus on Clarke, fear and desire and hunger all mixed together. 

Clarke moves to sit on his legs, keeping him immobile, and her fingers tighten around his sack, slowly, until every breath out of Bellamy’s mouth is a pained little moan. 

She was the one who suggested this, originally. She knew people enjoyed it in theory, the way she knew about arteries and nerves from the books and manuals her mother kept on their shared family network, and she thought Bellamy might enjoy it, but she didn’t expect to enjoy it this much herself. 

Bellamy’s skin is sweaty, his hair in even greater disarray than usual, he fidgets and bucks against her hold, and only Clarke’s weight and Bellamy’s own expertise with knots is keeping him horizontal. She bends down to kiss the head of his cock as she gives his balls another squeeze and he whines, gasping out “Clarke,” and “please”. 

She has to stop, let him go as soon as they start approaching uncertain territory for her. Bellamy begs her to keep going, growling at her that he can take it, but she’s not a doctor; beyond a certain point the idea of causing real damage gets too scary. 

She unties his hands and rides him, when they’re done. Bellamy’s uncharacteristically weak and limp under her, running his hands lazily up her body, smiling with pleasure and occasionally groaning when she hits a sore spot. She loves seeing him like this, high on endorphins, so relaxed he practically melts into the bed. 

“Your mother’s building a hospital,” he says later, sitting mostly naked on the bed while she sits fully clothed on the floor, checking the pockets and crevices of her clothes for all the appropriate weapons. 

“I know,” she says. Bellamy’s hands are in her hair, braiding it. He uses only the edges of her hair, in the style she prefers, but his braids are always much more intricate than the patterns she knows how to do herself. Years of playing hairdresser with Octavia, he once told her.

“She could use your help,” Bellamy says, hands steady. 

“She has plenty of helpers,” Clarke says. 

 

4.

“Perhaps I’ll give this to you as a birthday gift,” Lexa says, oiling up a curved, ivory dildo. Apparently it’s one of the objects routinely passed down from one Commander to the next. Clarke’s given up on thinking she’s figured out Grounder culture. 

“No, you won’t,” Clarke says, instead of asking how the hell Lexa knew Clarke’s birthday was coming up. 

“On the Ark, you would have been executed at eighteen?” Lexa says, looking up at Clarke with a brash, defiant glance Clarke’s learned to interpret as teasing. 

“If I’d committed a crime, yes.” Clarke says, pulling the leather harness on over her hips. “But not if I turned eighteen in prison.”

“How… humane,” Lexa says. Clarke honestly can’t tell whether she’s being sincere. Lexa pulls the dildo out of Clarke’s reach. “On the Ark, after eighteen years you were allowed to ask for a child, correct?”

Clarke freezes. “You can ask to have your fertility chip temporarily deactivated, yes.” She looks at Lexa but the words are clearly unfamiliar. Why does Lexa even care about this? “Can’t get me pregnant with this, you know,” Clarke says, running her hands along the harness. Even if Lexa could, Clarke’s implant won’t expire for another decade, without surgical intervention. 

“Well,” Lexa says, sinking down to her knees to attach the dildo, now slick to her satisfaction. “That certainly sounds like a milestone.” She pushes a finger into Clarke’s cunt and licks at the lips, making Clarke grunt. “I’ll be sure to get you something.”

Clarke pulls Lexa’s head away from her crotch. Lexa’s eyes are full of mischievous glitter. “How old are you?” Clarke asks. 

Lexa smiles and rises, pulling Clarke to the bed. 

 

5\. 

Clarke should see it coming, but she doesn’t. In retrospect, she decides to treat it as a good sign — even after all this time on Earth, even after everything she’s done, people are still capable of surprising her.

She finds it strange that Lexa insists on escorting Clarke back after yet another visit, yet more gruelling, exhausting meetings with clan elders where Clarke represents the people who took out the Grounders’ ancient enemy. 

Lexa claims she needs to visit a holy site, that they should travel half the way back to Camp Jaha together. Instead they dismount in a clearing in the woods, with a wooden hut. Lexa’s guards retire to strategic vantage points, while Lexa leads a reluctant Clarke inside. 

The hut is lit with candles, which would set Clarke’s teeth on edge — candles are not typical Grounder lighting — if it weren’t for the large, soft bed in the middle of the room, with Bellamy draped across it, shirtless, a flower on a long stem between his teeth. 

Clarke looks between him and Lexa. “Are you kidding me?” she says. “Is this a joke?”

“It’s your birthday,” Bellamy says, spitting out the flower, smug grin on his face. “We’re here to make your wish come true.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” Clarke says, “and you two don’t even like each other!”

“Bellamy and I respect each other as warriors,” Lexa says, taking her weapons off one by one and placing them on a small table. “And you are free to decline this gift.”

Clarke’s thoughts are a whirlwind. When did they plan this? Is it really happening? Is Bellamy lounging half-naked on a bed waiting to have a threesome with Clarke and the woman who nearly cost them everything?

“Bell?” she says, confused. 

“We don’t have to like each other,” Bellamy says, sitting up, “to like you, Clarke.” He looks down at his hands before looking up again, a long-suffering look on his face. “And I respect Lexa’s leadership.” He pauses. “We all make mistakes.”

Lexa, meanwhile, has piled up her outer clothes in the corner, left in the chest binding and underwear of Grounder warriors. “Do you wish to decline?” she says, tilting her head slightly as she gives Clarke an appraising look. 

The candle lighting softens all the edges and angles. The scars on Lexa’s stomach and sides, marking her kills, are barely visible. Bellamy’s muscled arms — his skin so clean it was clearly very recently washed — look even more inviting than usual. “No,” Clarke says. “I don’t wish to decline.”

They undress her together, with perfect cooperation, as though they’ve done this before. Lexa kisses Clarke while she unbuttons Clarke’s pants, pushes down the zipper, sinks low to push Clarke’s panties along with everything else as far down as Clarke’s boots will allow. Bellamy, now in his underwear, pulls Clarke’s shirt over her head, kisses her back as he unclasps her bra, makes her groan when he caresses her breasts before throwing her bra on the small table. 

They switch sides, sliding around her without breaking contact. She opens her mouth to ask what they’re doing only to be kissed by Bellamy as soon as she does. Lexa’s arms wrap around Clarke from behind, grabbing Clarke’s wrists and pulling them up, until Clarke’s arms are wrapped around Lexa’s neck. Bellamy falls to his knees, kisses Clarke’s belly and grabs her thighs until Clarke gets it, lets him lift her legs off the ground, put her thighs around his shoulders, his mouth against her crotch. 

She’s weightless, off balance, supported entirely by their bodies. Lexa’s strong arms are on Clarke’s stomach and Bellamy’s are on her hips and she’s still wearing her fucking boots, her pants like a binding, resting on the small of Bellamy’s back. 

“Happy birthday,” Lexa whispers, voice warm and pleased in Clarke’s ear, as Bellamy’s mouth latches on to Clarkes cunt. He sucks at Clarke’s clit, licks at the inner lips, puts his tongue into her hole just like she taught him. She moans and wonders how they came up with this — not just the idea, but the execution, this scheme, this position. Did it come from Lexa’s experience? Did Bellamy do this with any of the girls he slept with when his head still swam with newfound power? But no, neither of those seem plausible. Lexa is too possessive, too intense with her feelings to share too often, and Bellamy was too eager and too scared to do much of anything inventive back then — Clarke’s heard all his stories. 

But then the pleasure is too much to think anymore and Clarke gives herself over to it, helpless in the arms of the two extremely physically strong people with whom she’s apparently decided to share her heart. Bellamy licks and sucks at her until she’s gasping, until she feels the orgasm building in the pit of her stomach, making her moan louder and louder. Lexa’s fingers circle Clarke’s breasts, pinch her nipples, making it impossible for Clarke to think. She can’t focus — there’s just the sensation of Bellamy’s mouth and Lexa’s hands, sounds that aren’t words coming from all three of them, until Clarke’s body seizes and for a moment she can’t breathe, the pleasure overwhelming, making her clench her fingers in Lexa’s hair, squeeze Bellamy with all the strength in her thighs. 

She’s limp, with a smile slowly spreading over her face when they carry her to the bed. Bellamy stays at the foot of it, untying the laces of Clarke’s boots. His mouth glistens with slick moisture. 

“What is the tradition among your people?” Lexa says, lying half on top of Clarke, eyes dark and ravenous. Her tone indicates she’s speaking to Bellamy. “One for each winter survived?”

Clarke can hear Bellamy chuckle as he pulls off her shoes. “You’re the expert on what’s possible, here.” Finally done pulling off Clarke’s clothes he climbs on the bed as well, sitting back on his heels, eyes on Clarke. “I’m all for trying.”

Clarke wants to ask them both to strip fully - it’s not fair that she doesn’t get to enjoy some eye candy, as long as they’re doing this. But then she thinks: maybe this was part of their deal. Maybe they’re only okay with this as long as they can keep something back. Retain some distance from each other. 

Lexa looks away, up at Bellamy “You took too long, last time. A skilled lover could have managed in half the time.”

Clarke glances at Bellamy but he doesn’t look pissed, the smirk is back on his face. “How about we test that theory, _Commander_ ,” and the way he says Lexa’s title is nothing but a challenge. “I’ll time you.”

God, what Clarke wouldn’t give to see how they planned this. “Hey, no rush, right?” she says, smiling. She can’t tap into the tension between them right now — she’s too happy and sated. It suddenly occurs to her that if they intend to keep their underwear on throughout, the sexual frustration is going to rise disproportionately as the day progresses. 

Oh, well, eventually she’ll throw some cold water at them if things get too out of hand. It’s her birthday after all, she’s allowed one night of not worrying about what the people she’s sleeping with might do to each other. Especially when she’s personally supervising. 

Lexa moves down the bed, running her hand down Clarke’s body as she goes, thumb digging slightly into Clarke’s skin. It makes Clarke shiver. 

“Watch and learn, Bellamy Blake,” Lexa says, with the same tone Clarke’s heard her use for war declarations. 

It’s Bellamy’s turn to lean down and whisper in Clarke’s ear, as Lexa’s fingers descend.

“Happy birthday, princess,” he says, and Clarke moans from the finger sliding into her cunt.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any prompts for porn with these characters (separately or together!) or in general for the show, I'm looking for people to toss me ideas (the more detailed the better, don't be shy!) at dreamwidth (marina) or tumblr (pitchercries).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] jewels in joy designed by sabrina_il](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4540083) by [were_duck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/were_duck/pseuds/were_duck)




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